Julian thought—
"This must be a deaf-mute."
The child looked shyly askance at the Emperor, who grew almost fearful in the silent twilight of the deserted wood in the company of the elf, who stared at him fixedly and haughtily as a little god.
Suddenly, he pointed out to Julian an old man, clothed in a patched and tattered tunic; Julian immediately recognised a temple priest. The weak and broken old man stumbled along in drunken fashion, laughing and mumbling to himself as he went. He was red-nosed and completely bald except for a fringe of downy grey hair. His watery and short-sighted eyes had an expression of childlike benevolence. He was carrying a large basket.
"The priest of Apollo?" asked Julian.
"I am he. I am called Gorgius. What do you want, good man?"
"Can you direct me to the high-priest of this temple and the people worshipping here?"
Gorgius made no answer at first, but put his panier on the ground. Then he rubbed his bald pate and, standing with arms akimbo, held his head on one side winking mischievously with his left eye.
"And why am I not the high-priest of Apollo?" he asked, "and what worshippers do you mean, my son?... May the Olympians protect you."
He smelt strongly of wine. Julian thought his behaviour indecent and prepared to administer a rebuke—